I feel as though elementary and other early schooling is harshly underestimated in terms of importance and relevance to the people we become. This education is the foundation on which we build our future lives, and each and every learning aspect-academic and social--affects who we become. That was no different for me. Elementary school was split between Narragansett and Richmond, Rhode Island. I still remember wandering into what seemed like a huge school, running into an aid who helped show me into my third grade class, and rejoicing at the fact that one of the kids from my neighborhood (who I had a tragic crush on) was in my class. I remember being ashamed of my low grades in the class, crumpling up the pieces of paper marked F and trying to slyly hide them in the trash on the way out to the classroom. My teacher, Mrs. Wahl, who read stories about witches and drove a bright yellow bug with the license plate of “Sunshine”, called my mom in after she found the papers, which obviously had my name on them, in the trash. Starting off a bit behind, school was never easy for me. I needed glasses in kindergarten but didn’t get them until halfway through first grade when the grown-ups figured out that it wasn’t that I wasn’t trying or was stupid, but that I couldn’t see, that was impacting my ability to read. After half a year of first grade being held in for recess and having a folder of work dropped in front of me, I got glasses. Second grade and third I played catch up, devouring books one after another. I spaced out and lost moments of class, and in fourth grade the spacing became noticeably worse. My teacher that year sent me to the school psychologist, and I was subsequently enrolled in a weekly counseling group. I missed math lessons once every week, which didn’t seem like a huge concession for a nine year old who didn’t like math. The group didn’t much help with the problem I was sent to it for, though. It mainly talked about ways to manage anger and control feelings, something I was already doing, sticking things in boxes and stashing them away. The reason I was in the group was that my mom was in a car crash, and needed surgery, and I was distraught about the whole situation. Not a big believer in suspicions, I stepped on cracks all the time. Step on a crack, break your mother’s back. Except, instead, my mom had a “broken” neck. In fourth grade, I had a good group of friends. Having moved to Richmond in third grade, it seemed like I had tacked myself on to preexisting friend groups. I remained with that group of friends, more or less, through middle school. In eighth grade, I worked with special education children, mainly other students with autism, during my free advisory block. It was very rewarding to work with kids who had learning disabilities, and to see them succeed. I wasn’t very popular in middle school, but to the kids I helped, that didn’t matter. I was just a person, not “Helen Keller” or “Squirrel girl” or “Spider toes”," I was just me, reading a book about whales, or helping with math problems, or baking gingerbread houses. Being unpopular (and by this I mean a bit more than just not being a jock or cheerleader, which, by the way, I tried to do) in my early school years lead to me being incredibly concerned about making other people happy. In other words, I was sensitive to the unhappiness of others, and I tried to avoid it at all costs. In seventh and eighth grade, I was on a "team" which meant that I would take the majority of my classes with the same students, and have the same five teachers both years. The teachers I had on that team defined a lot of how I looked at education, especially my English teacher Mrs. Mcvay and my science teacher, Mr. Potts. Mr. Potts taught in a way that involved everyone in the classroom, we learned by doing, writing, reading, and every learning style imaginable. We would frequently go on trips to analyze water samples in local rivers, collect bugs and fish to determine populations and pollution, and we also grew a garden for a local warm shelter, taught younger kids about conservation, and talked about current environmental issues we were facing today. My English teacher was very supportive, and made sure to introduce interesting literature and lessons, and get us to write our own stories and discuss interpretations in class. It was here that I really began to love writing and believe that I finally found something that I was good at. I was enrolled in a creative writing class that Mrs. Mcvay recommended me for because she thought my writing was worth pursuing. I loved the class.And I began to write, write, write. And then came high school. Teachers help us build our foundations, find ourselves, construct our lives. And these teachers, these experiences, shaped me.
Elementary school was split between Narragansett and Richmond, Rhode Island. I still remember wandering into what seemed like a huge school, running into an aid who helped show me into my third grade class, and rejoicing at the fact that one of the kids from my neighborhood (who I had a tragic crush on) was in my class. I remember being ashamed of my low grades in the class, crumpling up the pieces of paper marked F and trying to slyly hide them in the trash on the way out to the classroom. My teacher, Mrs. Wahl, who read stories about witches and drove a bright yellow bug with the license plate of “Sunshine”, called my mom in after she found the papers, which obviously had my name on them, in the trash.
Starting off a bit behind, school was never easy for me. I needed glasses in kindergarten but didn’t get them until halfway through first grade when the grown-ups figured out that it wasn’t that I wasn’t trying or was stupid, but that I couldn’t see, that was impacting my ability to read. After half a year of first grade being held in for recess and having a folder of work dropped in front of me, I got glasses. Second grade and third I played catch up, devouring books one after another. I spaced out and lost moments of class, and in fourth grade the spacing became noticeably worse. My teacher that year sent me to the school psychologist, and I was subsequently enrolled in a weekly counseling group. I missed math lessons once every week, which didn’t seem like a huge concession for a nine year old who didn’t like math. The group didn’t much help with the problem I was sent to it for, though. It mainly talked about ways to manage anger and control feelings, something I was already doing, sticking things in boxes and stashing them away. The reason I was in the group was that my mom was in a car crash, and needed surgery, and I was distraught about the whole situation. Not a big believer in suspicions, I stepped on cracks all the time. Step on a crack, break your mother’s back. Except, instead, my mom had a “broken” neck.
In fourth grade, I had a good group of friends. Having moved to Richmond in third grade, it seemed like I had tacked myself on to preexisting friend groups. I remained with that group of friends, more or less, through middle school. In eighth grade, I worked with special education children, mainly other students with autism, during my free advisory block. It was very rewarding to work with kids who had learning disabilities, and to see them succeed. I wasn’t very popular in middle school, but to the kids I helped, that didn’t matter. I was just a person, not “Helen Keller” or “Squirrel girl” or “Spider toes”," I was just me, reading a book about whales, or helping with math problems, or baking gingerbread houses.
Being unpopular (and by this I mean a bit more than just not being a jock or cheerleader, which, by the way, I tried to do) in my early school years lead to me being incredibly concerned about making other people happy. In other words, I was sensitive to the unhappiness of others, and I tried to avoid it at all costs.
In seventh and eighth grade, I was on a "team" which meant that I would take the majority of my classes with the same students, and have the same five teachers both years. The teachers I had on that team defined a lot of how I looked at education, especially my English teacher Mrs. Mcvay and my science teacher, Mr. Potts. Mr. Potts taught in a way that involved everyone in the classroom, we learned by doing, writing, reading, and every learning style imaginable. We would frequently go on trips to analyze water samples in local rivers, collect bugs and fish to determine populations and pollution, and we also grew a garden for a local warm shelter, taught younger kids about conservation, and talked about current environmental issues we were facing today.
My English teacher was very supportive, and made sure to introduce interesting literature and lessons, and get us to write our own stories and discuss interpretations in class. It was here that I really began to love writing and believe that I finally found something that I was good at. I was enrolled in a creative writing class that Mrs. Mcvay recommended me for because she thought my writing was worth pursuing. I loved the class.And I began to write, write, write. And then came high school.
Teachers help us build our foundations, find ourselves, construct our lives. And these teachers, these experiences, shaped me.